


Day 1. Hostage

by DarthFucamus



Series: Kinktober 2018 [1]
Category: The Vault (2017)
Genre: Deepthroating, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Hostage Situations, Masks, Masturbation, Non-Consensual Bondage, Rape/Non-con Elements, Violence, the mask stays on
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-01
Updated: 2018-10-01
Packaged: 2019-07-23 06:56:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16153931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarthFucamus/pseuds/DarthFucamus
Summary: The madman in the mask singles out one Centurion Bank hostage among the rest. She isn’t sure where the line is and what will happen when she crosses it, but part of her wants to find out.





	Day 1. Hostage

**Author's Note:**

> This work of fiction is exactly that: fictional. 
> 
> Consent under duress isn’t consent.  
> That being said, there is also nothing wrong with enjoying it in a fictional context. Enjoy, but be informed :)

She watches him through a tear in the sack on her head as he moves. He doesn’t like to sit still, or can’t, just shakes and fidgets. She doesn’t know his triggers, but she’s seen, and heard, others fall victim to his unsteady temper. The masked man in a suit hasn’t killed anyone since yesterday.

But the bank teller curled up on the ground next to her, the one she’d been speaking to before it all happened, has been laying still for a few hours, the blood on her hood a dark, crusty stain. He hasn’t hurt her, though, not like some of the others. He seems to have taken a liking to her, in fact.

The robber doesn’t know she can see him looking his fill of her legs, and other parts of her.

On Day three, after urinating in a potted plant at gunpoint, the only one who’s been given such a kindness, she kicks her panties aside, wondering if he will notice. She doesn’t dare look.

He presses the barrel of his revolver into the underside of her lower jaw and makes her stand, now that she’s done. She does so, but can’t stop her knees from shaking. It’s more from exhaustion and persistent stress than anything.

She sees when she looks down that he prods the underwear with the toe of a boot. She must have let some noise slip, because the gun jabs her in the jaw and forces her head up.

Her one eye, peering through the tear in the fabric, meets his. It is glassy and shining through the eye holes in his mask. He knows.

Panic sets in as he grabs her hood and rips it over her head, tearing out some strands of her hair in the process. The bank teller on the ground beside her stirs at her frightened whimpers. Not dead, yet, but it won’t matter in a moment anyway.

She stands as though the gun is supporting her body weight and she leans into it for balance without thinking. She is scared to look at him.

He knows, now, that she’s been watching him. He holds onto her hood still, and with her gaze downcast, she sees the blood caking his nails.

“Please don’t kill anyone else,” she says. She can’t think of anything else to say at this point, her brain doesn’t work.

He tilts his mask face sideways, she sees it out of the corner of her vision.

“Why not?” he asks in a voice thick and rattled with exhaustion she can almost taste.

The question is loaded, every chamber, like his gun. It’s a game of roulette. Will her answer be met with a bullet? Or is there some magical set of words that could end this peaceably?

“Because…” she scrambles, gasps when the gun barrel pushes her chin up, forces her to look him in the face. “Because I want you… to-”

“You want me?” he asks, and the tremor in his guttural voice makes her knees and spine want to buckle.

She stutters, stuck between clarifying and not upsetting him. The rest of that sentence was meant to be ‘I want you to get out of this alive, also.’ It would have been an different approach, to be sure, maybe a little risky for anyone but a psychiatrist.

But now, with her plea interrupted, it sounds like a proposition. One that he takes with widening eyes.

The tension and fear and horror is a mass of pressure in her ribcage as he drags his gaze down her body, the dirtied and rumpled blouse, the pencil skirt whose seam is torn halfway up her thigh, the bare legs long stripped of their nylons, and her panties in a guilty crumple on the floor.

That had been a deliberate choice, acting on some desperate, harried thought to use his fixation of her to her advantage. And now, with her statement…

“Yeah,” she says, looking at the blood on his hands, the way he fists her head covering at his side like it’s a throat being strangled, the blood on the floor, the huddled, hooded hostages. A mad pang of fear arousal strikes her like lightning down her body to her trembling stomach. It is as involuntary as a sneeze.

He grips the back of her neck with the hand holding the sack, squeezing her spine through her skin, and shoves her in front of him toward the back offices.

She panics and tries to jerk out of his grip, stumbling on her underwear.

He releases her neck with a growl, and she wants to apologize; she is scared, she doesn’t know what she’s doing, she just wants to go home. But he leaves her standing there with her hands bound behind her back, feeling a draft under her skirt, watching his tall figure go back to the group of huddled hostages.

He grabs the security guard by the shoulder and forces him to his feet with barked orders and the silvery gun flashing in the lights. Any thought that this hostage might be able to help her is dashed when she sees how he sways and stumbles, weak. The red stain on his hood is wet, fresh, from being beaten earlier.

She is better off than many of them, and guilt hits her harder than the realization of what is about to happen.

The masked robber now guides the security guard with the gun to the back of his head toward her. The robber’s eyes land on her and he jerks his head, commanding her wordlessly to go ahead of him into the break room.

She obeys like she is dreaming. Now her thoughts are on the security guard rather than herself. In a way it makes it easier. She’s doing it for him, not for herself. It’s a lie, but she doesn’t think she could do it otherwise.

The robber pushes the security guard to the floor, his back against the wall. The effort it has taken for the guard to walk at the behest of the armed, deranged man, leaves him panting, covered head lolling to the side.

The masked robber keeps the gun trained on the guard as he makes her stand next to the other man with her back to the notice board. Behind him is the main room, and she can still see the other hostages. But she has trouble looking away from his white, unmoving mask face. She thinks she can see the suspicion in his eyes.

He is ready for her to go back on what she said. He’s ready to kill the guard if she does.

Her fingers are flooded with heat, as well as the rest of her, for the first time in what feels like an entire day. She licks her dry lips. She’s so thirsty.

“Can I have some water?” she asks, daring to speak up because she thinks water’s all she needs to get through this. She can’t keep her eyes from darting to the security guard who she’s not even sure is fully conscious. None of them have had water, or food, for two days.

The robber says nothing, but she can hear him breathing fast and shallow behind his mask like he is in pain. He nods, slowly.

She doesn’t know if it’s a trick, but he doesn’t make a move as she goes to the water tank in the break room, full of fresh water that none of them have been allowed to touch. She turns away from him as she figures out how to do this with her hands tied.

She lowers to the floor on her knees before the cooler, knowing her back is to the man with the gun. She uses her chin to push the tap open, then holds her open mouth beneath the sweet, fresh water, almost crying for how good it tastes. She coughs and chokes and gulps, she lets some of it wash over her face.

She has the space of a moment to consider how she can get the water to the other hostages, but she hears the cocking of the hammer behind her.

“Okay,” she says, pleading. “Okay.”

He shoves her to the ground, back to the plaster, and runs a dirty thumb around the wet rim of her mouth. Her eye is on the gun, aimed and ready to fire at the security guard.

He lets go of her chin to open his fly, and she can only think how grateful she is for the water as she avoids looking at it. She can smell him when he pulls himself out. Under the sweat and musk, she detects cologne and wonders if he was normal before he decided to rob a bank.

But as he holds his cock in one hand and the gun in the other, she knows he was probably never ‘normal.’

She doesn’t look away from his downcast face as she takes his cock into her open, limp mouth. Stress-tears gather at the corner of her eyes and she clenches them shut as she touches a tentative tongue to his thick shaft. His cockhead touches her soft palate, and he chokes down spit, throat bobbing.

It’s almost like he can’t believe she’s doing this. She can’t believe it, either. He lets go of his shaft to paw at her hair, and she makes a small, sucking mouth noise, completely involuntary. The security guard must have heard it, because his head rolls forward, toward her.

“What is… what is happening?” his sleepy voice asks, and irrational shame clenches her stomach, but she can’t answer with the robber’s cock in her mouth, and she wants him to be quiet. But he isn’t.

“What are… you doing?” the guard asks, gaining some strength in his voice, and she realizes that he must recognize the sounds of the blowjob. He must think… oh god. He must think she is being raped.

The robber shows agitation in how he grips her hair too tight, and she tries to renew her vigor, working her mouth around his dick with a little more enthusiasm, with hopes to distract him. Please be quiet, she thinks.

“What are you doing to her? Leave her alone!” the guard says unable to see anything but able to draw conclusions all the same, and she suppresses a desperate sob as she sucks harder. But the robber’s focus is frayed.

When the guard makes an attempt to kick the robber, feeble and ill-conceived, the cock is ripped out of her mouth and the butt of the gun strikes the top of the man’s head. His whole body shudders and slumps sideways. He’s still breathing, but he’s not moving or fighting anymore.

The robber, crazed, still keeps the gun trained on the man, but his eyes are narrowed behind his mask. He fists her hair, pinning the back of her head to the wall by a handful, then pushes his cock between her lips.

She thinks, for a second, to bite. Instead she opens as wide as she can and takes him into her mouth, pulled by her tongue and the moist suction of her cheeks. In his current state, she knows he’s going to be rough, but she’s still taken aback when he pushes into her with the strength of his hips.

She gags as the cock intrudes past her tongue and into her throat. He draws out, grunting, only to push in harder and farther. She chokes, her bound hands twisting in the rope, sweat making the fibers slide over her skin, and he pulls out just enough to give her a chance to gasp for air, before pushing in deep.

She can’t breathe, or swallow, but she tries anyway, feeling the saliva trickle down her chin, throat open and spasming. Right when her lungs flutter and prickle with oxygen deprivation, he pulls himself out and allows her to breathe for a second, and her inhalation is vocal. If anyone is conscious in the next room, they can hear.

She can’t think about it, though, all she can think about is sucking his cock like her life depends on it, because it does.

He fucks her face, knocking her skull against the wall behind her, pinning her between his zipper fly and the unyielding surface at her back, she focuses on breathing between thrusts.

He fills her throat, this unhinged man, a psychopath without regard to her wellbeing or comfort. He says nothing, but he grunts, and it’s almost quiet in there beyond the rustling fabric and wet gulping noises of her mouth around his erection.

He fucks as deep as he can, like she is a bottomless hole, and her lips pinch between her teeth and his lower abdomen, the peeling skin splits, and the taste of blood mingles with his sweat and the musky flavor of his cock.

She feels the wetness tickle between her bare thighs. At first she thinks she’s peed herself, but as her thighs slide together, as she tries to get a better position and maneuver her head out of his iron grip, she realizes she’s aroused.

He loosens his grip on her hair, but not the gun, and she takes the degree of allowed freedom and leans forward, so her head won’t knock against the wall, trying to concentrate on his taut skin pumping down her throat, slippery glans coated with saliva. She works her hands free of the bindings, and without thinking, uses her newly granted freedom to hold onto his calves to steady herself as she sucks his dick.

Not to fight, but to do this better. The gun wavers, but he doesn’t seem to notice or mind that she’s no longer bound. His hand slides to cradle the back of her head and hold it as he jerks his hips, humping her face, skull-fucking her with deep groans of drunken lust.

She lets him do as he will. And she touches herself. No one can see her do it, no one will know.

The robber growls and thrusts extra hard, and by the swollen channel on the underside of his cock surging, she knows he’s ejaculating. She holds very still except for her moving fingers, and swallows his cum, lungs burning to take another breath, eyes streaming, jaw aching and sore.

He lets go of her and it’s like a load-bearing line’s been cut and she falls back against the wall, ropy saliva and semen trailing over her lips and chin as his softening, still oozing cock is pulled out of her.

The first rush of oxygen accompanies an explosion of tainted bliss in her belly and she comes with a choked, hoarse moan while the robber gathers his wits. The gun is no longer trained on the guard, but pointed toward the ground, hanging limply.

She doesn’t know what comes next. She doesn’t know what time she bought, if any. He certainly doesn’t say anything as he tucks himself back into his suit trousers and closes the fly as though nothing just happened. In fact, he acts like he doesn’t see her anymore as he reaches down and grabs the security guard by his ankle.

With frightening strength, he drags the unconscious man out of the break room and into the main lobby, and she is left gawking.

The moment she is unattended, she stands to her feet, wipes her lower face on her forearm, staggers out of the break room, and away from the lobby where he seems to be collecting the hostages for something.

She doesn’t think, and is beyond fear and doubt as she limps down the hallway, with flickering lights. In another side room is a corpse and she doesn’t look at it. She finds a window that is unlocked, and opens it.

Climbing through, she is received immediately by the silent police officers who get her away from the bank as quickly as possible without alerting the robber.

She is given a blanket and water, but she can’t answer questions as the hostage situation continues inside. Blinded by the flashing lights, deafened by the sound of police radios, and the negotiator, on the phone now with the robber, all she can think about is the taste of his cum and the throbbing pulse between her thighs.

She truly doesn’t know how she escaped, or why. None of the sequence of events makes sense, and it all feels so unreal.

\--------

When he comes for her, like he did for the other survivors, she is almost relieved.

The white masked face had haunted her dreams and waking hours so much that it feels normal when she sees him standing at the foot of her bed in her dark bedroom. She regards him, then she rolls onto her side and goes back to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading this garbage, and to FancyLadySnackCakes for her encouragement when I had doubts.


End file.
